


From Hell, with Love

by NaturalEvil



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Incest, Childhood Trauma, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Nesting, Oral Sex, Other, Polyamory, Vomiting, cuntboy Nero
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25984648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaturalEvil/pseuds/NaturalEvil
Summary: Three flickering hearts are bound together, and roost comfortably within the walls of Devil May Cry.But when another life is brought about from a single night of agony and lust, everything seems to go to hell.And as Nero's stomach begins to swell, he wonders.Is that side of humanity really for them?
Relationships: Dante/Nero (Devil May Cry), Doppelganger/Nero (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38





	1. These Precious Times

“Marry me,” Dante mumbled as his cheek was kissed, his mouth curving into a sluggish smile at the sound of a familiar warm chuckle against his skin. Nero kissed him again, lips puckering and lingering, a gentle morning ritual between two hearts; inflamed and in sync.

Quietly, Nero moved away to dress, pulling on his clothing in his sluggish and relaxed way; his devil arm glowing a soft amber gold through the fabric as he pulled his shirt over his head. At the sound of Dante’s light snoring, he crept out of the room.

Out in the hallway, Nero could hear the clack of laptop keys being pushed at an incredible speed; the sound growing louder as he headed towards the stairs. He scratched at the side of his head, the clicking of keys coming to an abrupt stop before the scrape of a pen against paper took their place.

In the office, the jukebox played at low volume, Dax Riggs echoic voice singing about running through fields of daisies and the tragedy that came with eating your own young. Stepping down the stairs and out into the foyer, Nero yawned in the mid-morning light.

“Good morning , Nero.” Said a familiar voice that was laced with an accent that no human could ever hope to place. With his spirits lifting higher still, Nero headed over towards the couch where Dante’s Other sat, at leisure in id yet always watching.

Unlike the man who lay asleep in the room above; the Doppelganger kept himself well-groomed and dressed in much less noticeable clothing. No long coats, no garments that were outlandish or particularly exotic, nothing that would make you look at him twice when he walked by.

At least, that’s what he liked to believe…

Neither a pinch nor a dash of red to be found, only a black leather jacket with a plain white t-shirt, blue jeans and motorcycle harness boots. Every single edge of him was smooth and preened, his skin the color of top-shelf brandy, black hair rivaling Dante’s in its shine.

(It was this change that Dante himself seemed most grateful for) 

“Morning D,” Nero sat down and kissed his cheek, leaning his head against his shoulder as he glanced down at the open book, eyes scanning the foreign script that looked as legible to him as dead leaves blowing across the pavement. “I thought you were done with that thing?” He reached out and scanned the prickled script with his fingers, the anatomical illustration of a strange bird the only thing he was able to understand.

“Oh, I am done, this is a different one. Never hurts to start early on these things.”

Nero knew what he meant, that enormous library stacked in the back of the shop; liberated from the infamous hell tower that still stood tall in the abandoned edge of the city to this very day.

He watched as every keystroke and pen-scrape brought the knowledge of demons out into the open, pulled onto the surface from a two-millennium long hibernation underground. It was traitorous, what the Doppelganger was doing, rendering the forbidden alphabet readable to humans. Demonic breeds dissected, spells interpreted and carefully explained so that any layman could find potential use for them, but only if they were willing to pay an incredibly steep price; to sacrifice their own souls or the lives of the ones they had once loved.

Though there were certain passages that D would butcher intentionally, altering them so that certain rituals and spells would be as lethal as a bag of potpourri.

“You know as well as I that there are things that humans are better off being left in the dark about,” He told Nero one day as he changed one lethal spell into a nonsense assortment of animal parts.

Nero fell quiet and simply let his eyes fall closed, always feeling so sleepy even after he’d just woken up. He swallowed, his silver eyebrows knitting as he heard the sound of whistling coming from behind the front doors; constant and saccharine, the ear-worm from the puckered up mouth of a nostalgic old man who liked to sometimes dream of a youth long passed.

The doors to Devil May Cry opened and Nero rose from the couch with a heavy sigh, brushing his hands to ease the wrinkles on his pants as he straightened his posture, a reviled habit from a stern upbringing in Fortuna.

“You could have at least knocked, Morrison.” Nero said with a peevish indignation, a habit he had picked up from Dante.

“Now who has time for that? Anyway, I got a gig for y’all. Where’s Dante?” The foul stench of cigar smoke made Nero only wrinkle his nose and cross his arms, waiting a beat before raising his chin towards the steps.

“Of course, of course.” The agent sighed as he took his hat off his head, leaning against the pool table as he has always done. “Ain’t even noon yet,”

“Well go get lazy ass up, Nero. It’s first-come-first-serve on the targets,” A feminine voice cut through their chat, as swift and keen as the flip of a butterfly blade. Stiletto black heels and combat boots paced into the shop, flawlessly in sync with one another, their presence lethal, electrified.

Nero rolled his eyes just once and was up the stairs. 

“Got my book ready for me, D?” Lady asked as she took Nero’s warm spot on the leather couch, crossing her legs as she eyed the man next to her as if it was he who had invaded her territory.

A neatly labeled binder, as black as a bible and twice as thick, was gently placed in her lap, a leather-bound book following after that, wine-red in color. Lady nodded as she flipped quickly through the countless pages as smoothly as if she counting a well-earned stack of banknotes. D watched as her lips moved soundlessly over the translated texts, skimming page after page until she was satisfied with what she saw. 

“Don’t worry D, you’ll get your pound of flesh,” She gave him a pressed smile. Scholars, professors, and private collectors would squabble and bicker with one another to get their hands on the translation she held. Always willing to pay an arm, a leg, and a head, for even one sentence of forbidden knowledge.

“Didn’t even have to say please,” Nero announced from the top of the stairs, a recklessly attired but loaded-for-bear Dante beside him. The younger grinned as he swaggered back down into the office, fully dressed and brazenly punching the air in celebration.

000

When the Doppelganger had first come about, Trish had been much kinder to him than what was expected.

He knew of her struggle, having born witness to it all through Dante’s eyes back when they were still joined as one, man and his shadow stitched together at their feet. He perfectly recalls the she-devils own violent introduction into Dante’s life, as well as her betrayal and his utmost acceptance of her presence, both welcome and unwelcomed. 

“How does he seem to you?” D knew that Trish was going to ask him that as soon as they were alone.

It was a question that she always wanted to know and that Lady knew better than to ask. Her tone was sullied and dull, as if she had much better things to do with her time; though her concern was invaluable and genuine, nestled just under the surface of her voice, like a gold necklace gift-wrapped in old newspaper. 

“How does he seem? Fine, I suppose. No alarming change in behavior. Nothing particularly note-worthy has happened as of late.” Was all that he could think to say.

Trish huffed before hopping up onto her designated spot on Dante’s desk, a compact mirror in hand; her movements smooth and effortless. Long soft hair flowing like sparkling champagne down her back and shoulders; she grinned at him as she crossed her legs, as poised and treacherous as a witch’s cat.

“Because once this little gig’s over and done with, things just might turn sour for our dear friend Dante,” She plucked her lipstick from her pocket and quickly twisted the cap off.

“How do you mean?” D leaned back against the desk; his violin-brown eyes meeting her pale blue stare through the sharp, fractured pieces of her compact mirror; searching through the fractal as if the silver glass itself held the answer.

Trish preened herself before saying another word, that bewitching devil, taking her time to paint her lips in a perfect red cupids bow.

“The job that he’s out doing right now isn’t one that Morrison actually wants him for. He wants Dante for a special job; a real money-maker, this one’s just a warm-up…”

D only sighed as he wiped his hand down his face, an identical gesture that he learned from an exasperated Nero, shaking his head. He swallowed, fighting to even his breathing as an atypical anxiousness began to swell up within his chest like a broken fist, pressing hard against his heart.

“Where is Morrison going to make him go, Trish?” D felt his skin grow hot, and was astonished that it did not peel, crackle, and ignite, at the she-devils answer. 

“Red Grave City,” she said quietly.


	2. Hell In Love

“I’m sorry, Mother. I’m sorry for hurting Dante…”

_Liar._

_Liar, Liar._

Dante knew that Vergil was not at all sorry for what he had done to him, and was in fact proud of it; grinning at him leisurely from behind their mother’s back.

He remembered how anxious her voice sounded when she bent down to fuss over the wounds, holding his battered face in her smooth gentle hands; turning his head one way and then another to examine the damage that had been done. Dante also knew that his brother was using that time to quietly admire his handicraft, to snicker and laugh like it was some great joke.

The bruises that colored Dante’s skin were murky and dark, hardly any different from the blood that dripped from his swollen nose, dotting his dirty shirt with its torn collar and never-to-be-found button.

It was only after Vergil saw the look of anguish that blanched all color from their mother’s face was he moved to feel an empty remorse for his actions; shuffling his feet and refusing to make eye contact with either of them. Mumbling out yet another apology and hoping that the echo would add believability to his words.

And even after that:

“Dead-weight.” Vergil hissed softly, his face and eyes shaded with disgust as Dante was led away.

* * *

D awoke on the couch, his head throbbing with its own black pulse, aching from the pain of a misplaced memory.

Dante had been gone for several hours now, having left Nero with sad smile as well as soldier’s departing kiss on the lips; and brief brotherly squeeze to D’s shoulder that left a bruise. He groped at it to find it still warm to the touch. 

The journey to Red Grave City, it was something that he had been meaning to do for a long time now.

Dante had promised to call as soon as he landed, D thought as he turned his attention over to see Nero leaning against the desk, his head cocked to the side to keep the antique phone balanced against his shoulder.

“He’d usually call by now, that’s how I know he’s feeling bad.” He watched as Nero rubbed his nose, an old habit that was becoming a rarer sight day by day, trying not to sniffle. 

D could hear not the words, but the melody of the voice on the other end of the line; feminine, conspicuous, lovely. Perhaps Nero’s sister could offer words of comfort, bits and pieces of humane sanity or at the absolute least, kindness and a domestic love.

“Yeah, I already tried his hotel room. They said nobody had even checked in yet.” Irritation and fear dwelled in the same house, unhappily ever after. “But I know how he is, Kyrie. When he feels bad, he doesn’t want to talk.”

Nighttime had fallen and Dante was in Red Grave, D could sense it from where he sat on the couch. He could see unfamiliar streets coming into view as he closed his eyes, people running and screaming with demons close to their heels.

Empusa slashing with their claws, hissing and chittering.

The side of D’s mouth twitched into a sickened half-grin, the visible teeth in his mouth devil-trigger sharp. 

People held onto one another and pulled each other into buildings, a child could be heard crying, a lone red balloon sailing towards the sky, like a massive drop of red blood falling up.

Behind Dante’s eyes, he saw jewelry stores, mannequins in shattered windows with red shoes on their feet. Trefoil archways lined with neon lights the color of Nero’s right arm. A food stand decorated with colorful balloons, advertising coffee and donuts, lay abandoned, people rushing past it. 

Dante fought.

His guns went off.

Empusa and Hell Wraiths reduced to ragged pieces of flesh left to smoke and bleed on the pavement.

Still, there were small groups of people who stood and gawked at the devil hunter. D nearly shook his head, thinking them bare-minded and dumber than any living thing; even animals knew enough to run when danger was nearby.

Just like the humans they were, they eyed Dante’s actions as if they were nothing more than a simple magic trick to decipher, as if he were a sideshow freak who wielded his sword instead of swallowing it for their amusement.

D rose from the couch and headed towards the desk, his hands on his head as he blindly sought for Nero’s presence, seeking shelter in his arms. He pressed his face into the younger’s neck, breathing roughly, his eyes and mouth clenched shut, shaking.

“D…?” Nero’s tone was one with concern.

D, the fourth letter of the alphabet, a name that was so childishly simple and far too easy to remember. Akin to naming a dog Rover or a cat Fluffy. Though the Doppelganger did not complain; the name fit him as well as any other.

Without speaking, he pulled Nero into a slow hug, resting his chin on the younger’s shoulder, breathing the scent of his body as that devil arm glowed just a bit brighter. Nero reached up and curled his claws through glossy black tresses, Kyrie still speaking on the other end of the line, ignorant of her brother’s inattention. 

D knew that Nero still worried for Dante, but worried for him all the same.

“The first time I cried, I thought I was going insane,” Different parts of D’s face twitched as he spoke, as if a mask one thought to fit perfectly began sliding down their skin. He pushed it back up as he headed into the kitchen, leaving Nero and keeping his fingers to his cheek. “Of course anyone would feel that way. Doing something that is not in your blood to do.” he whispered.

D leaned against the refrigerator, sighing and keeping his eyes open. But the phantom streets of Red Grave City still flashed in his eyes, and Dante’s own shattered heart cutting at his insides. “Nero, N-” He could hardly speak, that name hovering over his tongue as he gasped for air.

“D?” The phone was placed back on its receiver; he could sense the younger heading towards him, his footsteps quick.

“T-turn off the lights, would you? Please?” D mumbled, fast-food menus and cheap magnets pressing into his back, his skin sweating under the gentle glower of the dull hanging lamps.

There was a click and he felt like he could breathe again. Shrouded in the gentle covering of darkness, able to open his eyes, even as the gunshots of Ebony and Ivory rang in his ears still.

“D?” Nero’s arm, a lovely neon blue, was the only thing visible to him. D focused on the light, how it outlined Nero’s facial features, making him look like he was drowning, the low blue glow caressing the curve of his mouth and the edges of his eyes.

“Hey…” Nero’s palm came to rest on his cheek, a clawed thumb wiping away the perspiration, and D saw a crown of thorns get cleaved in two.

He welcomed the kiss that followed, letting his senses dissolve into the slow movement of Nero’s mouth. He tried to focus on the taste of him, the warmth of his body as he pressed his chest to his.

The sight of an enormous house quivered in and out of his mind like a bad dream, a child’s toy covered in dead ivy out in the front.

That damned place, the mausoleum of Dante’s childhood.

D’s hands found the sides of Nero’s neck and pulled him close, opening his mouth to taste his teeth, Nero’s hands roaming that which was already known by heart.

He sunk down onto his knees and D let him. He heard his pants being undone, the zipper of his carefully pressed jeans being pulled down, and could not bear to look.

He let his eyes fall closed as he felt Nero’s lips take him in, surrendering himself to the warm sweet darkness of Nero’s mouth, deep and complete.

Suckling more than anything else, making hesitant little sounds that were small and wet and had to be listened for. 

He felt every self-conscious swallow, shivered every time the younger opened his mouth for air in a little gasping pant that brought about a stone-heavy hotness to his insides.

Those ophidian black claws wonderfully rough as they gripped at the base of him, squeezing lightly, something that he could see Dante enjoying thoroughly with rolled eyes and an idiotic grin.

This was as close to heaven as he was ever going to get, this diversion from another man’s agony.

Then his hand found Nero’s head and glided his fingers through that roguishly short hair, simply for the feel of him, delicately tracing along the outline of those ears that reddened at his touch. He saw Nero’s blue eyes open, (they were smiling at him, weren’t they?) and felt those lips tighten deliciously around him.

_“Ah…”_

He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t take anymore or hold it in any longer. Letting his head fall back against the refrigerator with a rattling gasp, D closed his eyes and let himself go. Bucking his hips up only once, and even then it was oddly restrained and graceful.

Nero moaned as he gulped down that white release, opening his mouth and bringing his devil hand up to stroke out the last few milky droplets onto his tongue, swallowing it with a gusty sigh.

D watched as a few of his stray seeds trailed down Nero’s jaw like slow white raindrops. He bent down, got onto his knees as well, and kissed him, his tongue lapping his own taste, salted like tears.

That devil arm glowing bright, D could see the gleam from behind his closed eyes. He warmed himself by that beacon.

And the old house caught fire, going up in flames once more; though instead of an army of demons being the ones at fault for its final destruction, it was the man-shaped child that once inhabited its walls, who was to blame.

He saw the family portrait, four solemn-faced figures painted in oils, curl and split, the beginning of the destruction.

Sparda’s ruined and faceless form being the first to be engulfed.

“I’m here, you’re not alone. Okay D?” Nero’s breath, full of life, tickled his ear.

D struggled to listen as Nero told him to think about dark, comfortable places. The inside of a cave, a library after hours, the secret place under the stairs at the bottom of a basement. Places where neither sunlight nor stars had ever been given the privilege to touch.

D thought, and imagined, but still saw fire dance and twirl in the skull of Rebellion.

He wanted to press his hands to his ears when he heard a woman’s voice, screaming her last words, leaving him forever behind a closet door.

“ _Vergil? Where are you, Vergil?”_

D grappled onto Nero with a heavy-hearted desperation, fingers curled and shaking, gasping like a man who could no longer breathe.

“D?”

He turned away, those dark places that Nero described to him having all burst into flames.

He didn’t react when Nero kissed his chin, mismatched hands gently petting soot-black hair.

The flames, red, orange, white; destructive and untamed. A beautiful and deadly glutton that would devour everything until it was starved to ashes.

Nero kissed away the image of flames, his tongue warm, not hot.

D focused on nothing but the movement of his mouth; the taste of the younger as sweet as honey. As comforting to him as a burrow, a tomb, a womb.

Still, he could see yellow police tape, pale with dust and twisted around every column, melt to pieces due to the intense heat.

Dante had been wronged, by fate, by an absent father, by life itself.

The house was only a house.

(not a home)

(not anymore)

Love dwelled under their patina of lust.

Nero whined as his legs were opened by a pair of eager and strong hands, feeling helpless and instinctively trying to jerk his knees back together. D only pulled Nero closer to his body, bulging already and making the younger shudder with a gasp when they made contact.

Pale blue eyes were entranced by russet brown as Nero was pulled into D’s lap. Nero panted quick and light as he felt his slickness begin to seep and dampen his undergarments, D's anatomy more pronounced as it pressed against him.

Nero’s claws, sharp and black, tenderly touched the others mouth, gently tracing his lips without reason, grinning as the tips of his talons were kissed.

He shook and grasped at D’s clothed shoulders, pushing his leather jacket down his arms, rolling his hips as his own jeans were effortlessly pushed down his thighs.

Nero closed his eyes, his brow furring as he breathed and took him in.

It was a whole-body thrill that overtook the both of them, incoherent and soul-shaking.

Surroundings rendered unrecognizable, faces forgotten and minds wiped clean, though still a bit tarnished in spite of the effort.

Bones shook, tendons twisted and throbbed, blood rose higher and higher.

Pleasure deemed more important than care, Nero was shoved back onto the kitchen floor, the man above him rocking in and out of him, unstable and artless in form.

The roll of his eyes, lost in a ruined daze. He felt D’s head press against his naked chest, felt blistering hot breath against his skin, still moving inside of him, the place where they met beginning to throb.

Nero struggled to breathe through his open mouth, his black and gold hand combing through D’s ebony tresses. 

Hellishly gentle, D kissed the younger’s cheek, his fingers outlining the pink moist lips of Nero’s second mouth.

The flames, the smoke, would draw more demons to Dante. Hungry for ash or crisp black meat.

D saw a white closet went up in flames, the wood crackling and caving in on itself.

He was going to orgasm, felt it creeping closer as the muscles in his back rippled and tensed. 

Pre-ejaculate already coated the inside of Nero's thighs. 

“You’re killing me, you’re killing me,” Nero kept mumbling, his hands clawing at D’s skin with a blind and dire urgency. “You’re killing me,”

Dante was killing them.

Dante kept killing them.


	3. In Sickness

“Damn, you guys throw a party while I was away?”

Nero awoke with a start, jerking up and squinting about in an impotent and heavy-eyed confusion, D’s bare chest heaving gently under him.

“Looks like you had a lot of fun,” Dante teased as he entered the kitchen, waking D up by playfully banging the refrigerator door against his head, snickering as he reached in to grab an old slice of pizza from a half-open box.

“Back already?” Nero mumbled as he staggered up to his feet, balancing on one leg to struggle into his boxers, his devil bringer braced against the decorative skull on the back Dante’s coat for leverage.

“Yep. Just a bunch of small-fry, nothing I couldn’t handle on my own.” Dante said as he ungraciously stuffed his mouth full of food, waiting a beat for Nero’s hand to leave his shoulder before bending down to grab hold of D’s arm, pulling his Doppelganger to his feet.

He looked better in spite of his roughened appearance, his skin colored, the pain in his eyes lessened, as if poison had been drawn from the angry wound of his soul. His silver hair was dirty and grey; devil blood had crusted onto his coat and pants. He smelled of death yet never looked happier, more placated, more drugged.

“Small-fry, huh?” Nero turned and kissed Dante’s chewing mouth, licking his lips at the taste of tomato paste. 

D yawned as he combed his dark hair out of his eyes, his discarded clothing having long since dissolved during his deep sleep, leaving him a bare but entirely ordinary sight for all present.

He rolled his shoulder and a moss green sweatshirt covered his chest as quick as a finger-snap, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, trailing coils of scentless black smoke. He then shook his leg like one trying to lodge a rock from their shoe, and loose-fitting sweatpants covered his lower body not one second later.

“Here ya go. Flowers for my flower,” Dante half-sang with a cheesy grin as he presented Nero with a small handful of blood-red blossoms, looking like a haggard prince before performing the most courtly of bows.

“Uhhhh, thanks.” Nero yawned, not wanting to say that the bouquet smelled of black smoke and rotted meat. But he grabbed a beer bottle from out of the trashcan and filled it with sink water, the flowers wilting splendor accentuated by the russet glass in the dust-laden sunlight.

* * *

Nero could tell that Dante hadn’t slept since before he left for Red Grave, his breathing even and calm like he had just been through hell and could finally rest.

There’s so much love and pain inside of Dante, Nero realized, that it was a miracle there was room for anything else. Everything that he had been through was far too much for just one soul to bear.

“You okay, Dante?” He felt the need to ask, laying his cheek against the elder’s naked chest, the bathwater rippling gently from the movement. It was a swampy and unknowable color, dyed murky and dark by the remains of slain demons.

Dante only sighed as he pressed his nose into the side of Nero’s neck, nuzzling the younger and breathing in the musk of his skin; piecing together the night before just by scent alone.

He was not the perfect mate, he knew, as envy stomped its massive hooves and shook its bloody antlers inside of him. 

Dante grabbed at the younger and kissed with a savage want, until he couldn’t think, until it hurt enough for Nero to moan, off-key and dulcet. Dante then lapped at his throat, pinned his wrists above his head and licked at the sweat under his arms, sucking and biting at his hard pink nipples and it still wasn’t enough. His eyes the color of fates Merlot, he had gone feral with an unrelenting and damning joy.

Ever so fond of playing with fire, they didn’t use a condom, and couldn’t; even if the thought had crossed their minds. They yearned for that closeness, that naked agony that was worth whatever pain came after.

Hard and monstrous, Dante released the beast from its threshold.

Nero spread his legs, his vestibule welcoming the elder, as moist and quivering as a fresh laceration, still scented by the Other. His eyes glinted a dangerous yellow, vivid like the lone spark one would witness before a sky-shattering explosion.

In the first-floor bathroom, Dante fucked Nero without restraint. Nero jerked and clamored; blubbering a desperate little “Ah…”, his face hidden in Dante’s shoulders.

Water splashed over the rim of the tub and time and time again. The tiles soiled, green and brown stains splattered about the flooring like a Jackson Pollock tragedy.

They moved together as one, instinctively in sync. Nothing was said, the human language was dead for as long as they were together like that. Only amorous sighs, harsh breathless pants, and the wet splashing of water were heard.

They were two simple souls, bound by their self-made bliss. Nero’s golden demon arm grabbing at Dante’s chin and they were kissing once more.

Holding onto Dante as if his own body were coming apart, Nero knew that what he felt was happiness. It was joy, and sweetness, and every other wonderful thing that lay in between them.

Love was a word that neither were fond of using aloud, even as it pulsed through them like red and blue waves of fire colliding. For Dante it was still a four letter word. But for Nero, it was sometimes one, but at that moment it was five.

* * *

Two weeks passed and the three of them fell back into their unique normality; hunting and translating as if the trip to Red Grave had been naught but a senseless dream that they all had happened to share.

Nero was answering a call on his own, taking care of a ruthless pack of Cleaving Vanguard at the whim of a malcontent client.

Ever in his comfort zone, he fought with the wild abandon of a child playing a game they weren’t supposed to. He was the Carrion Boy, star of the world-famous Slaughterhouse Circus.

These demons were hardly the threat that the client painted them as, to where Nero believed that that fear and ignorance is what played a part in the embellishment. (A word he learned from D)

“C’mon baby, show me what you got!” He taunted with a fully-bared grin, effortlessly dodging the oncoming scythe-swipe with a demeaning sort of merriment, the blade barely missing the hem of his long coat.

With the flashy finish of a charged-shot blast from his Blue Rose, and everything went quiet.

Nero let out a slow exhale, finding the peace that comes about after the last demon falls to be so heavy, reminding him of the group patrols he was forced to take during his knighthood in Fortuna. 

It was a memory made brief, as a sudden and strange sickness suddenly overtook him as he stood alone among the butchered lesser devils.

Nero threw up onto their remains, chunks of poorly-chewed food flowing up from his throat, half-eaten and containing scant traces of their original flavor. It was the kind of sickness that burned his nose and throat raw.

He was doubled over, his hands braced on his knees, and in the reflection of a broken scythe on the ground, he could see how red his eyes were, that mucus dewed on his upper lip.

He kept retching, bits of waste sliding back down his throat, making him cough wetly to force it back up. Tears, automatic and unintended, slipped out of his eyes, the salt of it mixing with his saliva.

As he wiped his face with the sleeve of his long coat, Nero had no idea that that nausea was hardly the beginning to an incredible change, not just to his body but to his life as well. 


	4. What is Known is also Unknown

Nero woke up aggravated, as if he had been wronged in his sleep, his pride left wounded and bleeding out into the night.

He had been plagued by a helter-skelter hostility for days now, flying off the handle at Dante and D without any provocation at all, yet feeling righteously wronged all the same.

“Now Nero, there isn’t any reason to get shirty,” D would say, his tone one with confusion as he held his palms open in surrender.

“Yeah, well fuck you and your shirt!” 

Eating brought him no pleasure as well; everything being too salty or too sweet; too burned or bitter or bland. All that Nero tasted, no matter its intended flavor, left a strange metallic taste deep in the back of his throat.

Nero hungered for _something_ , but could place neither finger nor claw on what it was.

Ever restless and wanting, he couldn’t stand to sleep in his and Dante’s bed anymore, moving down to the ground-floor bathroom to see if it would help him relax; a strategically placed ‘Out of Order’ sign deterring any unwanted visitors.

Dante, left confused and scratching his head in helplessness, asked and asked what he had done to drive Nero away.

“I don’t know, babe,” Nero would say distractedly as he brushed past the Man in Red, his arms filled with old musty blankets and coats that had been scavenged from every crevice of the shop. Comforters stained black with old blood and coats that had seen the not-so-kind days of Dante’s youth. Hand-made scarves that his sister had sent from Fortuna, full of holes and sliced to ribbons, but still cherished and kept clean. 

Again and again Nero piled the soft dragon’s horde into the bathtub, his old coat and hoodie adding extra comfort with their familiar colors and smells, limp pillows lining the edges like tired soldiers standing half-alert at attention.

A photo of him as a child lay folded inside of his old coat pocket, which he would always look at when he had trouble sleeping. Sepia toned, it showed his siblings, his little family; one alive and one dead, standing at each side of him when he was six. Nero himself rendered the portrait imperfect. His childish frown like a dark stain smeared in between two perfect smiles.

He spent most of his time in bathroom now, splayed and uncomfortable, his skin sweating and rosy even though it was hardly hot. Nero’s stomach had tied itself into a knot that was as stiff and heavy as steel; and nothing he ate or drank could unravel it. There were moments where even the taste of tap water would be enough to make him retch.

“He’s sick,” D whispered to Dante one morning, leaning in so close that his breath warmed the other’s ear.

“Yeah, no duh, D” Dante snapped back before moving away, scratching at his reddened earlobe.

Nero became lethargic soon after that, struck by it with a sudden intensity that was akin to a clenched fist or a bolt of lightning. He would spend hours curled up the same position in the bathtub like a child that had just been beaten. Pale and sweating, the touch of light hurting his eyes so much that he kept the room closed off and dark.

But even then, he told Dante and D that he was fine, that everything was okay. He was okay. Thanks for the food, now get the hell out. 

It was a rational lie.

Even calls from his sister could not ease his senseless tension, talking on the office phone in just his underwear, explaining to her the things he had been doing recently; that yes they were odd but at least they brought him a fleeting sort of peace.

As expected, Kyrie listened with open ears and a sensible heart, waiting patiently for Nero to finish before finally telling him what she thought was happening.

“Maybe…have you thought that, well, um…” She always spoke like that when he wouldn’t like what she had to say next. 

He nearly dropped the phone when she finally found the right words, her voice hesitant but clear.

He told her goodbye and slammed the phone down into its receiver, throwing some clothes on and heading out of Devil May Cry without a word breathed to either of his mates. 

* * *

In the drugstore, Nero did not know which test was best, and lacked the clear-headed patience to do any sort of beforehand research. He simply bought three different brands, six tests in total, and pulled his hood back over his head the moment he was out on the street again, the little pink boxes lining the inside of his coat, wrapped in clear shining plastic.

Locked inside of the bathroom, he paced about like a wild songbird trapped in a cage, awaiting the results with a nervousness that made him suck his teeth and bite at his nails. Rubbing his hands up and down his face, through his hair, Nero tried to weigh the possibility of what his sister had said to him, but it was far too heavy for him to even consider. Shaped wrong, bulky, it wailed like a wounded thing and did not want to be held. 

When it was time to see the results, Nero braced himself, sighing heavily with his eyes shut tight, mismatched hands braced on the edge of the sink and scratching into the porcelain.

Two little lines greeted him when he finally opened his eyes. Two little I’s, thin red lines that had rewritten his entire future from that moment forward.

He let out a breath that he had been holding, swallowing dryly, trying to think of something to say to himself. Quietly, Nero lifted his shirt up, exposing his naval and abdominal muscles to the cool air, massaging his black claws across his skin, wondering what little thing could possibly be growing underneath, getting bigger and bigger by every second.

Leaving the test on the counter, the other ones unused and stashed in his coat pocket, Nero fell into sleep like it was a pit that he had no intention of climbing out of; the blankets covering his body like many layers of concrete.


End file.
